Not the Expected
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Hell House tag: The truce did last at least a hundred miles.


**Not the Expected**  
K Hanna Korossy

He hadn't really meant to start it again. Not that it hadn't been fun and all, Sam just had a point about them not being four anymore and about how their pranks tended to escalate. But Dean found himself noticing when they hit one hundred miles, then two, and beyond. And Sam was slumped in sleep again, victim of the dull East Texas countryside. Toward the window instead of Dean, because even in sleep he didn't quite trust their truce, either. Which was fine with Dean because he'd finally given in to the inevitable and decided he was going break it, anyway.

It eventually came along, the long stretch of straight and empty highway Dean had been waiting for, and he smiled.

Then started to yell, jerking the steering wheel hard from side-to-side.

It didn't matter who you were, scared five-year-old or tough and experienced hunter of the supernatural, a wake-up like that registered as only one thing: car accident. Sam woke in instant defense mode, long limbs flying out to brace himself, a cry on his lips. One arm smacked Dean in the shoulder as another swerve of the car sent Sam sliding toward him.

Dean nudged him back upright as he straightened the car. Grinning widely as an elbow not-so-accidentally knocked into his ribs. "Something wrong, Sam?" he asked solicitously.

A wordless growl. "A moron brother who thinks he's funny. I thought we were rolling over, you jerk."

"Yeah, that—that's kinda the point."

Sam breathed something fierce and non-English, and Dean chuckled. Maybe it wasn't smart to harass someone who had access to skunk oil and hyssop and knew how to use them, but it was just so much _fun_.

Sam sat up straighter, clearing his throat and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Apparently going for the _I was about to get up anyway_ approach.

"What happened to the truce?"

"We hit a hundred miles back around Tyler." Dean pointed to the odometer.

"You know, I really hate you sometimes."

"Yeah, feeling's mutual," Dean said easily, and reached for the map. "We're getting close to Louisiana—you wanna check the route?"

Sam glowered but he took the map. "Where are we going again?"

"La Croix. See, northwest?"

"Yeah, I got it." Sam yawned as he followed the route with a finger, and Dean felt one small twinge of guilt, quickly quashed. Sam slept well these days, rarely troubled by nightmares anymore, and a few disturbed naps in the car wasn't going to hurt him any. "Do you think…?"

The unfinished question drew Dean's attention back. "What?" he asked.

Sam's shoulder hitched. "I was just wondering if Katrina maybe released a few things that were trapped or sleeping or something. Seems like there's been a lot of supernatural activity in Louisiana since."

Dean never minded contemplating work-related questions. "Lot of new ghosts," he offered with a tilt of the head. "And New Orleans was always kind of a psychic hotspot."

"Yeah." Sam took a breath. "Okay, we're taking the next exit."

They headed north.

00000

Some of their jobs they had no idea what they were getting into and deliberately checked out during the day, when things were less likely to blow up in their faces. Others, they pretty much knew going in what to expect, and checking it out at night meant getting a handle on the task when activity was the highest and witnesses were the fewest. This job definitely sounded like the former.

Dean pulled into a motel a few miles south of their destination at dusk and got them a room. Two doubles and an unexpected whirlpool bathtub, which Sam would love. It was one of the things Dean silently appreciated about it just being the two of them now: he got to indulge his brother a little in ways their dad would never have allowed, and Sam would have never felt free to enjoy anyway. It was sappy, and Dean wouldn't have told Sam for anything. But he was glad to have his brother back and was just as aware how much Sam didn't want to be hunting again, and silently did what he could to make it as easy as possible for the guy. For what little it was worth.

Sam did, indeed, light up with something near delight at the sight of the whirlpool, and after impatiently waiting while Dean showered, disappeared into the bathroom. After an hour of watching TV and listening to Sam in the other room humming what Dean generously called music, he grinned and turned in for the night.

He half-expected to wake up with his hand in a bowl of warm water, but Dean was dry and comfortable as morning light filtered into the room and tickled his closed eyes. He opened them, looked around, catalogued. Sam slept in the other bed, dead to the world, and Dean's mouth twitched at the open-mouthed, drooling expression of contentment. Apparently, the whirlpool had been a big success. Sam's overflowing duffel sat on the table next to the laptop, while Dean's was neatly zipped shut on the chair where he'd left it. No booby traps lay around him that he could see. The soak had probably soothed Sam into weak-kneed relaxation and suspended his revenge for now. No matter; it gave Dean time to plan.

He slipped out of bed with long-practiced silence and dressed in the dim light. Sam slept in later now than in those first few months after Jess, but he still wasn't exactly a late sleeper, and would be up by the time Dean got back with breakfast. Then they could figure out their strategy for the day. Dean gave his brother one more glance and, satisfied, crept out the door, making sure it locked behind him.

He turned to the Impala. And lurched to a horrified stop.

"_Sam!"_

He didn't care if his brother was asleep. Dean banged the door open with enough force to wake the comatose.

Sam was sitting up in bed, looking sleepy and innocent the way little brothers were born knowing how to do. "Dean? What's wrong?"

Dean flushed, his hands curled into fists as he gesticulated, his voice just this side of murder. "What the—what did you do to my car!"

"Something's wrong with your car?" his brother asked, wide-eyed.

Okay, so maybe Dean had crossed the homicide line. His hands were flexing now, imagining wrapping themselves around something.

Sam climbed out of bed and skirted his brother—widely—to go stand in the door and look out. "Huh. Looks like it's filled with Styrofoam peanuts. I wonder how that happened?"

"You are so. Dead." Dean knew his expression was as lethal as his tone. "You know what it's gonna take to clean that out? What a mess it'll make?"

"Actually—"

A raised finger silenced him. "Just…shut up. Stay inside the room and _pray_ I can get that car back to the way it was yesterday, or you are never leaving Texas again."

"Louisiana."

His blood pressure climbed another notch. "Whatever. I see you out there before I'm done, and I'm not going to be responsible for my actions—we clear?"

Sam was obviously trying so very hard not to smile, which didn't help Dean's mood at all. "You, uh, sure you don't want some help?" he started.

Dean just growled and whirled away, the door slamming hard enough behind him to make the windows rattle.

He stood again in front of the Impala, staring helplessly at his now-black & white car. His hands moved uncertainly, unsure where to even begin. Opening the door would mean a flood of the foam peanuts, but he couldn't see any choice in the matter. How had Sam friggin' done it, and where did someone get a car's worth of packing peanuts in the middle of the night anyway?

He could hear Sam start to laugh behind him, the curtain fluttering when Dean cast a sharp glance back. This wasn't just the cackle of amusement it had been in Texas; this laughter sounded like it welled up from deep inside, a part of Sam that hadn't seen light of day in months, until Dean could hear him sputtering, tears probably rolling down his face.

Dean's fists slowly loosened. His glare turned rueful, then grudgingly appreciative. However Sam had done this, it _was_ a killer prank, and almost worth it to hear him laugh like that. He was still dead, and cleaning this out would be a bear, but it was also kind of funny. In a really twisted, nobody-messes-with-my-car kinda way.

Sam had always been the exception to all his rules.

With a sigh, Dean got to work.

00000

It took almost five hours before he pushed the motel room door open again. Coated with white flecks and sweat, Dean strode inside and, without glancing at Sam, threw a brown paper bag on the table and kept on going into the bathroom. He wanted a shower before he even attempted to talk to his brother. Sam would probably check the food carefully for tampering, but ultimately, Dean had been feeling benevolent and had picked Sam up some of his favorites. His revenge would be a lot more…sophisticated than hot pepper in the turkey.

"How's it look?" Sam asked almost—almost—apologetically when Dean emerged. He did seem genuinely interested, though, which was the only reason he got a verbal response instead of a physical one.

"Clean, no thanks to you. Cleaner than it's been for a while, actually," Dean conceded. "Finally found out what happened to the Snickers bar I lost." He winced. "But if you ever—"

Sam was chewing on a smile again. "Car's off-limits, I know, man—I don't have a death wish."

"I'm not so sure about that," Dean muttered, but bygones were bygones, especially with his car and his body clean and his stomach full. And Sam had been trying to smooth things out in the meantime in his own way, a page of notes by the laptop. Dean nodded at them. "What did you come up with?"

It was enough for a plan, actually, and they discussed strategy and armaments over the cookies.

They had the right equipment already on hand, for once, and when the two of them straggled back in the evening, they were sore and scratched-up but unexpectedly successful. They'd only meant to check out the job and work out a strategy, and instead they'd ended up killing the thing. Not bad.

Dean stopped for food on the way back—drive-through, because the long graze down Sam's temple and cheek might have attracted some undue attention—and back at the room they dropped on their respective beds to eat. Dean idly clicked on the news, just to make sure they weren't on it, and leaned back to chew on his food. Pretending he wasn't aware of Sam shaking his head at him and booting up the laptop.

Dean swallowed a smile, and pretended to focus on the TV.

Sam clicked and read. Brow furrowing, he clicked and read more.

"Something wrong?" Dean asked.

"No, I…got a bunch of emails from friends about a picture, but…" Sam frowned more deeply, skimming the screen, then scrolling down…

His jaw dropped, eyes flicking up to Dean. "You didn't."

"If you say so." Dean shrugged, went back to watching the TV.

"You…you took a picture of me with that stupid spoon in my mouth?"

Dean scratched the side of his jaw. "Uh, let me think…yeah, that rings a bell. Texas, right?"

"And then you sent it—how did you get a list of all my friends, anyway?"

He swung his gaze back over to Sam, trying to look at least mildly offended. "Dude, you do know you're not the only one who knows how to use a computer, right?"

"But I password-pro—"

"Eighteen years, Sammy."

"You are never figuring out the next—"

Dean was watching TV again, and interrupted almost idly. "Licorice."

Sam gaped at him.

Dean twisted around. "Well? Am I right?"

"I hate you," Sam said passionately.

"Yeah, I think you said that already, Styrofoam Boy."

"Oh, God…you do know my friends think you're nuts already?"

"Guess it's a good thing I sent it from your account, then."

Sam spluttered at him, but Dean hadn't been hunting demons for twenty-two years for nothing. His unruffled posture had Sam biting off a curse and lunging into the bathroom.

The whirlpool would help. And he had an idea his little brother was in there plotting. Dean grinned at the TV. He was looking forward to this.

00000

Their next job came in the form of a phone call, a referral from a contact. Well, at least this one had been a fast and easy one, Dean thought as they packed. Sam's face still made him wince to look at, but better scratches than evisceration or limb removal or any other of the hundred bodily dangers they faced on a regular basis. He watched covertly to make sure Sam was moving okay, and whether from whirlpool or lack of injury, he was, and that was what Dean cared about.

He rolled up jeans and shirts happily, glad for the finished job, glad to see Sam looking less pinched these days. His little brother's ire over the picture thing had died down before he'd even crawled into bed the night before and given Dean a drowsy good-night, and Dean thought maybe the pranks were over. Truth be told, he wasn't sorry. It was fun, but it was also plotting against each other instead of against common enemies, and that probably wasn't the best idea in their line of work. He'd apologize to Sam in the car when the moment seemed right, and make sure nothing woke his brother's nap this time.

"Dean." Sam rushed in through the open door, looking serious and a little pale. "I can't find it."

He stopped rolling up his jeans and stared at Sam. "Can't find what?" They didn't have all that much, and only motel rooms and the car to lose even that in.

Sam swallowed, didn't quite meet his eyes. "Dad's journal."

Dean felt his own blood drain. _"What?"_

"I was using it last night, okay, writing up the notes on this trip and looking up something about the Carolinas, and…I don't know, I thought I put it on the table, but it's gone."

"How could it—Sam, a book doesn't just get up and walk out!"

"I know that, all right? It must've fallen or something. Help me find it."

Dean was already looking, swallowing anger as urgently as he was an odd cold fear. Not only were they a lot more helpless without that book, but if they reunited with their dad again and he found out they'd lost it… Dean didn't fear his dad, but he did fear the loss of respect that had always seemed to lurk behind John's every expression.

But losing something—that was a mistake. And while John Winchester had blamed them for mistakes, especially Sam, Dean couldn't quite bring himself to go there. Not while Sam looked far more shaken than even Dean felt.

Still, he was just shy of frantic as he dropped to his knees and started checking under the furniture. "Keys," Sam said from across the room, and Dean paused long enough to dig them out of his pocket and toss them to his brother.

The journal had to be somewhere, right? One room, one car—there wasn't much space to lose it. Unless something had taken it or made it disappear. It wasn't impossible in their occupation. Something they'd made mad, maybe. It was a good revenge, if anyone ever figured out how valuable that book was.

Nothing on the floor, or in the drawers. Dean started methodically stripping the beds. Man, they should have protected it better, maybe kept it locked in the trunk…

"Dean."

Sam's voice was so strange, Dean stopped instantly and turned.

Sam stood in the doorway, holding a book, but it wasn't the journal.

"We don't have time for this, Sam," he growled, and returned to unmaking the bed.

"Dean, man, stop—this is important. I found this in the trunk."

There was a real note of urgency in his tone, more so than there had been when he'd declared the journal was missing. Dean reluctantly dropped the search for a moment and stepped closer to see what his brother held.

Nothing special, at first glance, just one of the reference books they kept in the trunk. One of the older ones they didn't have to use very often—thank God—and Dean tried to remember when it had last even been out. Not since Sam had returned, anyway. But he would have seen it before, and since when was a book about ancient rituals unusual for them, anyway?

But it wasn't the book Sam was looking at, Dean realized as he got closer. It was a piece of paper folded inside, an impromptu, long-forgotten bookmark. Sam's eyes were dark as he handed it to Dean.

_Kansas State_, the masthead said, and Dean didn't need to keep reading to know what Sam had found and why he'd gotten so worked up. Still, it was their own ancient history, and there was nothing forced about Dean's nonchalant shrug. "What about it?"

"'What about it?'" Sam echoed disbelievingly. "You got accepted into a college, which means you applied for admission in the first place, and that's all you've got to say? 'What about it?'"

"I decided not to go," Dean said, turning away, hoping that was the end of it even though he knew better.

"You mean, Dad decided you wouldn't go."

"No," he glared back at his brother, "it was my choice. Believe it or not, Sam, I do make some decisions without consulting Dad first."

Sam's angry flare faltered. "But it was because of him, wasn't it?"

Dean snapped the next layer of sheets back roughly. "It was a lot of things, okay? You were only fourteen and still needed looking out for. Money was tight, and school's not cheap. And, yeah, Dad did need me, but you know what?" He pinned Sam with his stare. "I wouldn't have gone even if he'd told me to. School wasn't for me, Sam. I had a job, and I wasn't gonna take off for four years."

Sam blinked, eyes a little too wet, which made Dean want to roll his own. His brother took everything way too much to heart. "Dean…don't you wonder, man…I mean, you could have done anything—you still could. You're so much smarter than—"

"Okay, you know what?" Dean faced his brother squarely. "I'm a little sick of this 'poor Dean not living up to his potential' crap you've managed to get into your head, bro. I'm gonna tell you this just one more time: I made this choice. Me, nobody else. You like law, wanted to go to school? Well, I like hunting, and I want to help people that way. This is what _I_ want, Sam. And if you can't accept my making decisions for myself, pushing the whole school and nine-to-five prison sentence down my throat because you think that's what's 'best for me,' then the way I see it, that makes you as bad as Dad."

It was not something he said lightly. Or, well, ever. Nobody knew better than Dean how conflicted his brother's feelings about their dad was. And if the gut-punched way Sam looked was any indication, he hadn't been expecting that, either. Oh well. Dean needed Sam to hear him this time.

He wasn't comfortable with this kind of shocked silence, however, and twisted away from his brother. "C'mon, we gotta find that journal," he said gruffly.

After a moment, Sam stepped away, and Dean didn't pay attention to him again until he realized his brother had returned and was holding out something. A battered leather-bound book.

Dean stopped again, feeling his heart thud dangerously against his chest. His eyes narrowed as he turned back, slowly this time, to stare from the book to Sam. "Don't tell me…"

Sam looked contrite, big eyes peering through those bangs and all. "I had it in my bag. And, yeah, I know it was stupid joke, but that's not important right now. I, uh…I'm sorry. I didn't realize how you felt about the whole…hunting thing."

Dean was still wrapping his mind around _stupid _and _not important_, and now added _whole hunting thing._ It was easiest to just go with the most obvious offense here. "Sam, you realize how screwed we would be without Dad's journal?" Dean growled, because there was funny and then there were the things you didn't mess with: Mom's memory, Sam's safety, and Dad's journal. It was all he had of two of them, all he needed of the third, and if Sam didn't know—

"Dean,_listen_. You can hang me out to dry later, okay? I'm trying to apologize here."

"Yeah, well…" Dean's eyes skipped over him, and he reached for his duffel to resume packing, starting with the precious journal. "Don't. Unless it's for pulling this lame stunt."

"I'm sorry for that, too, but, Dean? It's this life I don't think a lot of, not you. I know it's important and that you're doing it for the right reasons, and I get that, I do. I just…" He smiled painfully. "I wanna be 'Uncle Sammy' one day, you know? This life…it doesn't have much of a future."

Dean had never much cared about that before, not until the thought was paired with that liquid-brown gaze. Sam wasn't even trying to play him, was just being heart-baringly earnest, and that only made it worse. "What do you want me to say, Sam?" he finally asked mutedly, because he really didn't know. Lie?

"Just that you'll consider some options when all this is over, okay? That we can talk about what you want to do."

"That's it?" he asked warily.

Sam's hands went up. "That's it," he swore.

Dean looked past him for a moment, then met his gaze. "But without all the apologizing and true confessions, right?"

Sam's mouth lifted. "No promises."

"Terrific," Dean muttered, and took his bag out to the car, feeling Sam's eyes on his back as he went.

But he didn't say no.

Sam didn't push, even though he kept watching Dean as they finished loading up the Impala and got in the car. Dean finally shot him a glance, ready to tell him to cut it out, only to get a warm smile that melted the words on his tongue. Apparently, they'd reached some sort of agreement that pleased Sam, even if Dean wasn't sure what it was. Well, he wasn't going to complain. Not if it got Sam off his back. Not if it made him happy.

Not if it made him think well of his big brother.

Dean slipped his sunglasses on and smiled faintly, reaching over to pop in the cassette in the tape deck

"…_don't tell my heart, my achy-breaky heart…"_

He looked at Sam in dumb shock. Sam, who was laughing his head off.

Then again, maybe he'd just kill his brother on the empty road somewhere and not have to worry about the future at all.

**The End**

_Author's Note: In my defense, when I wrote this, I'd seen only one other fic that suggested Dean might have applied to and been accepted into a college. There have been a quite a few more since then; I guess it's just a nice idea!_


End file.
